


contingencies

by orphan_account



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Beck Might Think He's in Charge, But Peter Calls the Shots, Collared Beck, Confinement, M/M, Quentin Beck Has Powers, Underage - Freeform, post-ffh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21962497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Of all the faces that Quentin expects to see—that’snot one of them. The kid in front of him looks older, but it hasn’t been that long, has it? He also lookspissed, his nose almost cutely scrunched, his wispy eyebrows furrowed, his cheeks red. At his side, Quentin watches as his hands clench into fists.“You’re not my usual call boy,” Quentin says lazily, following it up with a toothy grin. “Hello, Peter.”(Or, Beck gets taken into SHIELD custody and Peter kinda sucks at interrogations.)
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 33
Kudos: 289





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brodinsons (aeon_entwined)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/gifts).



> Hi! This was written for a Secret Santa gift for brodinsons. I really, really enjoyed writing this and I'm glad that you enjoyed reading it. :') I hope you all like it too. Happy Holidays. <3 
> 
> (PS. I used the underage tag since it's post-canon and the time period is kinda nebulous, but Peter's age is never really brought up so you can imagine him to be however old you want. :'))

**(i.)**

The pain in his side stings and burns, seeping through his muscles and bones, right down to all his frayed edges. Getting shot in the side by one of his drones hadn’t been part of his initial plan but, things like this? They require adaptation and Quentin _knows_ how to adapt. He’s damn good at it too; a contingency plan wrapped in a contingency plan.

And a bleeding wound always makes for inadvisable underestimations. He’ll take anything that works in his favor at this point, injuries be damned.

The SHIELD agent shoves him down into a cold metal chair and he remains unnervingly calm, despite the aforementioned wound that throbs and screams. That’s the first rule— _never_ react how they expect you to. Keep them on their toes. They _want_ him to come undone, to beg for mercy that none of them plan to give. He knows how this whole operation works. It’s not his first rodeo, probably won’t even be his last.

And so, when they bind his wrists behind his back with military-grade handcuffs, he _smiles_. And when they strap an equally uncomfortable collar around his neck and it clicks and locks into place, he _laughs_.

“Seriously?”

The agent doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look him in the eye. Quentin may as well be talking to the cement walls surrounding them. Hell, they’re better company than this brainwashed asshole. He can’t help but feel like he’ll be spending a lot of his time talking to them anyway. There’s no telling how long SHIELD plans to let him sit here and rot.

Days. Months. _Years_.

That’s fine. It’s still utter chaos out there, he isn’t missing much because the Avengers didn’t actually fix shit.

Tony didn’t fix shit.

Peter, well, that’s a bit more difficult. He could have but the kid never really got the chance. He’d inherited this mess of a world, had cameras flashing in his face, had a multi-billion-dollar weapons system placed on his cute little head. So much potential. So much lost.

“Suspect is secure,” the agent says into the walkie attached to his lapel. He looks at Quentin once, bland features heavy and pulled together, and then dares to shake his head as if he actually pities him.

Fuck this guy.

“Suspect?” Quentin asks, eyebrows raised, almost insulted. Why he’s only a suspect, he isn’t sure. Everyone knows, or _thinks_ they know, what he’s done and how he’s done it.

There’s no answer, only silence as the agent retreats to the single exit— a heavy door made of thick, impenetrable metal. Seemingly impenetrable, that is.

Everything has a breaking point.

“This all feels a little excessive,” he says airily, testing the strength of the restraints. Oh, yeah. They aren’t budging. It’s going to take some finagling to slip these babies off. But the tightness around his wrists and neck start to close in on him and he feels his cool slip just on the edge of panic.

There’s something off about these bonds. Like they’re closing the door on an innate, core part of him.

“Hey—”

Nothing. He struggles against the cuffs to no avail, grunting and baring his teeth. Fuck.

_“Hey!”_

The agent turns around, not a single ounce of amusement to be found. He almost looks bored which, frankly, _is_ insulting. He’s the guy who tricked Nick Fury. He’s the guy that almost leveled London. He’s the guy that took Spider-Man out of the game, sent him straight into hiding. He’s the guy who took control of Stark’s precious drone military and fooled the world. He’s Quentin Beck.

He’s _Mysterio._

“Loosen ‘em, will you?” Quentin asks, forcing a pleasant smile once he’s grabbed the agent’s attention. “I’m just one man.”

The last thing he remembers is the initial shock of an electrical current pulsing through the collar at his neck.

Lights out.

**(ii.)**

Fury shows up the very next day because, of course, he does.

But there’s something different about him and Quentin notices right off the bat. His coat flaps dramatically behind him the same, his boots thud extra loud with heavy steps in an annoyingly familiar way, and his single eye stares as menacingly as always. And yet…

“So, _you’re_ Nick Fury,” Quentin says, settling down into the chair as much as his restraints allow. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“Cut the pleasantries, Beck.” Fury drags a single chair from across the room, positioning it right in front of him by just a few feet. He sits and makes sure Quentin sees every inch of barrel pointed at him. “I’m not your buddy.”

“No,” Quentin muses, “I honestly should have known. I mean, convincing you and your whole little operation had been embarrassingly easy, after all.”

“Start talking,” Fury instructs.

Ah, no games then. Too bad. He wants to play.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he lies.

The room echoes with the sound of a cocking gun. There’s not a doubt in Quentin’s mind that Fury will blow another hole in him.

“How’d you do it?”

Quentin blinks, an owlish charade of innocence. “Drones, illusion tech. The same tech that Stark stole from me years ago. You should be familiar with it. Smoke and mirrors, that’s all it is in the end.”

He knows they _fully_ don’t believe that. If they did, he wouldn’t be basically hog-tied with these suppressants. Security measures, that’s all. Just covering all their bases with no idea that they struck gold.

“Bullshit.”

Quentin clicks his tongue. “Scout’s honor.”

“You weren’t working alone. Drones are missing. I want names. I want locations.”

Wow, okay, this guy really doesn’t budge. Thank god he’d been saddled with a generic knock-off in Venice. He might have not gotten as far as he did.

Fury takes his silence as being uncooperative, which, to be fair, is exactly what’s happening. “Now,” he warns and points the gun dangerously close to his still-fresh bullet wound.

It’d be easy to give him what he wants, but where’s the fun in that? More importantly, where is the _security?_ He’s not a fool, he knows the moment that he spills they’re just going to off him for good. For real. No illusions.

Quentin shuts his mouth and he and Fury have a good old-fashioned staring contest. He figures he has a leg up, considering his opponent only has one eye.

“Fine,” Fury says, giving up way too easily for Quentin’s comfort. He holsters his gun and gives him a once-over. “You’ll talk.”

Quentin bites his tongue and pointedly _doesn’t_ talk.

Fury stands, stretching, bones popping, in a cruel mockery. He obviously knows Quentin’s back is breaking from sleeping upright in a steel chair. Fucking asshole.

At the door, Fury turns, jabbing a finger in his direction. “You _will_ talk.”

Quentin doesn’t feel threatened. Fury has no idea what he _will_ do.

**(iii.)**

Turns out, he really won’t talk, but that’s because he’s left in isolation with nothing but his mind, four walls, and a single empty chair. A guard periodically comes in and helps him to the bathroom. They don’t talk. Sometimes he even gets a piece of bread unceremoniously shoved in his mouth, or water dribbled down his chin. They don’t talk then either.

As far as imprisonment goes, it’s not too bad.

But the silence _is_ maddening, threatening to break his resolve and talk just for the sake of talking. He’s not going to do that though. He’s come too far and all he needs is an out. Just the tiniest fissure in the ironclad security that SHIELD has him wrapped in and he’s golden.

If he can just get these goddamn cuffs off.

Quentin stares at the lonely camera in the corner of the room. He stares and stares. He searches in himself, tries to unlock the power that he hides there. If he can’t just—

Shit. It remains just out of reach, fortified behind a wall he didn’t build. That part of him continues to be blocked off. Untouchable.

It’s nearly as maddening as the silence.

Still, he tries.

And tries.

_And tries._

Until he feels like he might splinter open completely, spilling all his darkest, well-kept secrets all over the floor. He feels like he might really be losing it.

Quentin grins, shark-toothed, at the camera.

_“They’ll see what I want them to see.”_

**(iv.)**

“He’s not cracking.”

Maria Hill stands, bent over the security control panel, squinting at a staticky image of Quentin Beck strapped to a chair. On the screen, his feral and crazed stare gazes back. That shit is unnerving in the worst way. How the hell did Talos not see straight through this nutjob?

“Oh, he’s cracking,” Fury assures. “Like an egg. The only problem is— we don’t want him scrambled.”

Maria lifts an eyebrow. “Fried?”

“Try farm-fresh.”

She shrugs and turns back to watch the screen. They’ve been monitoring him for weeks, and he knows she’s not fully convinced it’s worth it. But Fury also knows not to let a good villain die. They always have answers, you just have to figure out which questions to ask.

Because something didn’t add up during Talos’ briefing upon his prompt return to Earth. Fury knew Stark, knew the guy had a serious talent for building things that tended to fuck up their operatives, but even he couldn’t program drones that had that level of intellect. Ultron didn’t count—that was a group effort with some space stone fuckery. So, he just wants to know how Beck did it and he wants to know what Beck’s still capable of doing.

He just needs him to talk.

And guys like Beck? They like to hear themselves talk. The silent treatment is the worst kind of punishment. He’ll be begging to say what he knows by the end of the month if they play their cards right.

And, if that doesn’t work, Fury has an ace in the hole.

**(v.)**

Of all the faces that Quentin expects to see— _that’s_ not one of them. The kid in front of him looks older, but it hasn’t been that long, has it? He also looks _pissed_ , his nose almost cutely scrunched, his wispy eyebrows furrowed, his cheeks red. At his side, Quentin watches as his hands clench into fists.

“You’re not my usual call boy,” Quentin says lazily, following it up with a toothy grin. “Hello, Peter.”

“I thought you were dead.”

Oh. Is _that_ why he’s angry? Quentin sighs. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“I—I didn’t believe them at first. When Fury told me, I just— I just had to see for myself,” Peter says and yet still, he looks like he’s come face to face with a ghost.

 _Boo_.

But that raises a better question. Why would Fury tell Peter that they have him at all? Surely that’s triggering some bad memories. The train, perhaps. London. The bridge. A gun with Quentin’s finger on the trigger. A video released in Times Square during the aftermath of the worst summer of his life. Yeah, Quentin knows he’s one big parental advisory. So, why would Fury jeopardize the mental capacity of his most valuable player just for some futile information?

“Why are you here?” Quentin asks and Peter stiffens, stops his cautious walk closer. The kid is too easy. “Here to help me to the bathroom?”

“No—”

“No? Here to bring me lunch?”

“Shut up, Beck,” Peter hisses. Beck, _right_. Peter had always liked that better, only now it’s not accompanied by stars in those baby doe-eyes. “You know why I’m here.”

“No, actually I don’t,” Quentin retorts. Good to see that he still thinks he has all the answers though. He leans forward and watches as Peter instinctively matches the gesture. Old habits die hard. “But maybe you can answer _my_ question.”

Peter scoffs and crosses his arms, tucking his hands up and under— a nervous habit that Quentin strangely remembers because he found it so endearing. Back when he thought he could get away with all of this while still leaving Peter wholly intact.

“What’s that?”

Great. Play along, Peter.

Quentin smiles. “Why am _I_ here?”


	2. Chapter 2

**(vi.)**

Time moves differently, just an hour feels like an eternity.

Except those hours spent with Peter.

“How’d you do it?” Peter asks for the hundredth time. He’s sitting across from him in the same seat that Fury sat, but there’s no gun. Just a scrawny kid in a cheesy shirt with a science pun.

Somehow that’s worse.

“Lose an electron?” Quentin reads, eyebrow raised. Peter crosses his arms over the punchline. “Clever.”

“We’re done here,” he sighs, standing up and loudly dragging the chair back to the corner of the room. His face is beet red, and the fact that he scrubs his cheek with the palm of his hand doesn’t hide it. Frustration or embarrassment, maybe both.

Poor kid.

“See you tomorrow,” Quentin calls.

**(vii.)**

His age catches up to him in the worst way possible, in the form of stiff joints, an aching back, and numerous cricks in his neck. Quentin knows he’s losing all of the definition he worked up pre-London, the only exercise he gets is the long walk to the restroom and back with a guard. And he knows that it’s part of the long game, part of the torture, but goddamn— it’s _working_.

But the paranoia creeps in. It always does.

And he finds himself wondering just how much of this is a joke. He wonders if maybe Fury and his whole band of merry assholes know _exactly_ what he’s capable of and if they’re all behind a one-way mirror somewhere laughing their asses off, just waiting for him to lose it completely.

That’s gotta be it.

That’s _gotta_ be why they’re sending Peter in to taunt him with his soft voice and watery eyes. Someone back in Prague must have seen the way he looked at the kid with genuine interest, admiration, and is using it against him.

They found his one weak spot— a nerdy little brat from Queens who was more capable than the entirety of SHIELD gave him credit for. He remembers, vividly, pseudo-Fury screaming at Peter until he teared up. It’s like they all forgot he was dusted, essentially dead for five years, airdropped into a warzone and then shoved back into high school when _that_ was all over. 

It’s also like they forgot Quentin shoved him in front of a train.

Because— what do you do with weak spots? Destroy them.

Or, use them to your advantage.

Quentin drops his gaze to Peter, sprawled on the floor, throwing and catching some palm-sized gadget. He’s cute, but a real shitty interrogator.

“Aren’t you here for a reason?”

Peter shrugs. “I’ve asked you a hundred questions, but you never give me a straight answer. Seriously, I don’t even know what Fury expects from me? You aren’t just going to just, I don’t know, give up your diabolical secrets. You’re not that stupid.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” Peter grouses. The gadget hits his palm with a loud smack, and he rolls his head to look at Quentin. “There isn’t anything flattering about being a villain.”

“A villain? Is that what I’ve been upgraded to?”

Peter scrambles to sit up, propping himself on spindly arms— but Quentin knows intimately how strong they really are. Peter used those arms to dangle him over a bridge once, and those delicate fingers pack a hefty punch when curled into a fist.

“Upgrade?” Peter asks, incredulous, then huffs out a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

No, he’s not. He’ll see.

“You know, I’d be a lot more willing to answer your questions if I weren’t stuck in this chair,” Quentin says. Worth a shot, and it must be a fairly good shot too because Peter’s expression changes for just a millisecond like he’s _actually_ considering it.

But, unlike Fury and SHIELD, Quentin _knows_ that Peter is a smart kid. He knows that Peter recognizes the danger and threat he poses. So much so, that Quentin doesn’t even feel like he has to hide his smarmy, toothy smile.

Call it like it is.

And there’s no doubt that Peter’s weird sixth sense is going off like a Fourth of July firework extravaganza, but he purses his thin lips and nods anyway. “I’ll see what I can do.”

**(viii.)**

He’s escorted to his new holding cell the next day. Okay, so Parker has some pull after all. Not that it’s gonna last once Fury realizes he’s still not getting any of the precious information he wants so badly.

It’s not even like he gives a shit about any of his crew’s wellbeing. He knows they all only tolerated him at best. None of them saw the grand scope of things. Their minds were small, petty, and focused on revenge. That wasn’t to say revenge didn’t play a large hand in Quentin’s satisfaction either. He enjoyed every moment of tearing down Stark’s operation one drone at a time. One sickeningly sweet protégé at a time.

No, not the point, it’s the principle of the matter.

Quentin just doesn’t want to give SHIELD shit.

Peter walks ahead of him, arms spread wide, gesturing around the sterile room they stand in. He’s not in his typical casual attire today but rather his suit sans mask— tight and formfitting, clinging indecently to every little curve on his compact body. Maybe it’s the borderline solitary confinement that has him drooling, or maybe it’s the fact that Peter’s always had a pert little ass.

“So,” Peter is saying, pointing to the twin mattress dressed in white shoved in the corner of the room. “You have a bed—oh, and a bathroom. You can shower or something. Not gonna lie, man, you’re kinda rank.”

Quentin smiles helplessly and lifts his cuffed hands. “No one was brave enough to take on the task.”

“Oh,” Peter says quickly, face reddening. “Right.”

“How about Spider-Man?” Quentin asks, letting his smile turn lecherous. “Is he the right man for the job?”

He’s expecting Peter to storm off. Punch him in the gut. Roll his eyes. Scoff. Laugh. Something. He’s not expecting Peter’s face to turn an even deeper shade of scarlet, all the way down to his neck, blending in with the edge of his suit. He’s not expecting the stammer or the nervous twitch of his fingers, the way Peter bites his lip until it’s just as red.

Oh, god. This poor, _poor_ kid.

“Relax, I was joking,” Quentin assures him.

Peter stiffens and runs a gloved hand through his curls, refusing to make eye contact. “Yeah, I know that. But, yeah— just make yourself at home.”

“Don’t have much of a choice. Do I, kiddo?”

Peter rolls his eyes and closes the distance between them. Shit. Maybe he really does smell awful, because the moment Peter’s in his space, Quentin becomes hyper-aware of how _good_ Peter smells. Fresh and clean, a hint of lavender. He wonders if that’s Peter’s body soap he’s getting a whiff of, or if it’s what that girl he likes wears, rubbed off from hanging too close.

Quentin takes a step back, tries to regain some distance and some clarity for his fuzzy head.

“You want those off or not?”

Wait. “What?”

“The cuffs,” Peter clarifies and reaches out again, this time cautious like he’s approaching a feral street cat. “I mean, I can leave them on.”

Oh. He’s _gotta_ stop giving him these openings for prime innuendos, but Quentin doesn’t take his shot, figures he’s made him suffer enough for one day. That’s probably one confused hard-on he’s packing in his spandex.

He holds out his hands. “Go ahead.”

Peter takes him gently, maneuvering him like a ragdoll until he can reach the locking mechanism on the underside. He punches a code—probably a birthday or something because, holy hell, these people are inadequate—and the cuffs give way with an airy whine.

It feels like fucking heaven and Quentin can’t help the way his eyes fall closed, or the sigh of relief that follows. He rubs his sore wrists, bruised black and blue from fruitless attempts to break them off, but super-strength, unfortunately, was never one of his talents.

When he opens his eyes, Peter’s gone back to staring at the floor.

“Thanks, kid,” Quentin says, “I owe ya.”

Maybe he even means it.

**(ix.)**

Shit.

_Shit._

Quentin had foolishly hoped the collar wouldn’t have the same power suppressant mechanisms that the cuffs did— but his abilities remain blocked off to him. Where the fuck did SHIELD even get their hands on this? He shouldn’t be all that surprised. This is what they do.

God, and _Peter_. He doesn’t even know how similar they are. Doesn’t even realize they're both tangled in Fury’s web— that they were both tangled in Tony’s before it eventually collapsed. Treated like pawns when they’re the most powerful players on the board, and yet always doing the bidding for the powerless.

If only Peter could _see_.

Quentin pries at the collar, tries to dismantle it, nearly choking himself in the process.

If only he could _make_ him.

**(x.)**

“How was school?”

Peter shoots him a nasty look— okay, is that what he gets for trying to engage in mundane small talk? These sessions are always all about him. Where are the missing drones? Who were you working with? How did you control it all so flawlessly? The same thing day, after day, after day. You’d think there would be bigger fish to fry, but he isn’t going to complain if he’s still seen as the top dog.

Quentin puts on a front, plays up some faux insult. “What? I can’t ask about you?”

“No. You don’t care,” Peter says, and the insult shifts a little farther from playful mockery. That kind of hurts because he _does_ care about the little dweeb. “Besides, I’m not in school right now.”

“Summer already? Shit. Just how long have I been in here—”

Peter stands from where he’d been sitting crisscross on the floor, face twisting up in anger. The side of his jaw twitches where he’s got it clenched so tight. He’s gonna shatter a tooth like that.

Silence stretches between them and Quentin waits patiently. Clearly, Peter wants to say something. Yell it, maybe.

“Do you not remember what you did to me?”

Ah, there it is.

“You’re going to have to be more specific, kid,” Quentin laughs. It’s a defense mechanism because he doesn’t find it funny at all. He almost feels bad that there’s a list of grievances that Peter can choose from.

“You told everyone about me, about who I really am,” Peter says, voice shaky. Quentin opens his mouth, but he isn’t done. “You tried to kill me, twice. More than that. You tricked me. You lied to me. You—”

“What?” Quentin presses because he’s nothing if not a masochist when it comes to this. “What else, Peter?”

“You—” Peter swallows hard, looks down at the white tile floor and Quentin watches as he mentally goes somewhere else, relieves a bad memory. “You died right in front of me.”

Something tugs heart at the hollow space in his chest. Guilt. That’s what it is. He feels fucking awful—and feels even worse that he would do it all again. Because at the core of it all, Peter _is_ a good kid who didn’t deserve any of this. He didn’t deserve to have this huge moral responsibility passed to him by some freak accident. He didn’t deserve to then have his childhood whisked away by Stark just because he caught wind that Peter was _different_ , that he could be used in a quarrel between adults far more experienced than him. He didn’t deserve to be targeted with multiple attempts on his life— only to die, and come back, and have Quentin perpetuate the cycle all over again.

Even now, Peter is just the bait on a string that’s being dangled in front of Quentin’s nose— and Quentin knows they’re going to get what they want, one way or another. Soon, it won’t be Peter coming to visit, but a masked guard with a pair of pliers and collection of teeth and fingernails.

He knows what he needs to do.

“Hey,” Quentin says softly, patting the empty spot beside him on the mattress. “C’mere.”

Peter shakes his head. “No—”

“Fine, it’s alright. Stay there. But you might want to sit down for what I’m about to tell you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**(xi.)**

Quentin lets him touch— lets him grab onto his hand and examine it like he’ll find anything there other than a few scars and callouses. His power doesn’t come from his hands, but rather his mind, but Peter’s so interested in the task he’s set for himself that Quentin just lets him do as he pleases. He sits close, cramped on the tiny bed, and runs his fingers across Quentin’s palm.

“If they know what I can do, they’ll never let me free,” Quentin says quietly. He’s close enough that the words breathe warm across Peter’s curls.

Peter stops for a moment and looks up, frowning. If Quentin thought he was close before, it’s nothing in comparison to the realization that he can see each of the freckles dotting Peter’s nose. He should be scared, terrified— and Quentin isn’t entirely sure if he means Peter or himself.

“You don’t deserve to be free.”

Quentin huffs a laugh and smiles warily, wishing that didn’t sting. “Maybe not.”

Peter hums and doesn’t press further, maybe he’s still processing the truth of it all. Quietly, he goes back to exploring Quentin’s hand, fingers tracing the lines of his palm. He touches the line of head, caresses the line of heart.

**(xii.)**

“Okay,” Peter says a couple of days later while pacing the length of the room, hand on his chin, eyes narrowed in on the invisible path he makes back and forth. “So, why all the theatrics— the drones, the damage, all of it? If you really have this power—”

Quentin sighs and Peter continues to ramble and attempt to work out the logistics. He’s explained this ten-times over, but of course, Peter can’t understand. He thinks maybe he should, it couldn’t have been easy to keep Spider-Man hidden. He had to have gone to extreme, almost bizarre measures. But he also figures it might have helped, in a way, to keep the two entities separate. Quentin never had that luxury. Because, even when he was Mysterio, he was hiding.

And now it feels strange to have someone else know. Especially Peter Parker, a kid that should, by all means, be his enemy. The fact still remains. He told Peter days ago and no one has come for him. Not Fury, not anyone else. Either they were sitting pretty on the information or Peter really hasn’t spilled.

Isn’t _that_ a thought?

Quentin snaps out of his trance when the jittery blur in his peripherals stops moving. He looks up to see Peter staring at him expectantly. Shit. Maybe he should have at least paid a little bit of attention to his long-winded rant.

“You don’t believe me?”

Peter bites at his lip and considers it before his shoulders sag with a sigh. “I don’t know what to believe.”

Quentin knows. He’s made sure of that—it’s his whole thing. Illusions. Manipulation. Even without access to his powers, he’s proficient.

It’s just, for the first time, he truly regrets it.

**(xiii.)**

“Believe me,” Quentin says out of nowhere. They’re on the bed, side-by-side, their backs against the wall. Peter’s close but not close enough to touch, but close enough that a strange, deep feeling takes root when he realizes that.

Peter scoffs. “Yeah, because that worked so well for me last time.”

He thinks about calling Peter’s bluff; if there is one to call. It’s been over a week and he’s still fairly certain Peter hasn’t told Fury anything they’ve discussed. So, Peter must believe him. Right? It doesn’t make sense otherwise. The thought thrills him.

“You said that I don’t deserve to be free,” Quentin says because he can’t argue Peter’s point. “Do you really believe that?”

“No.” Peter freezes, eyes going big and wide, terrified at the response that’s just slipped from his mouth. “Wait—”

“Do you, Peter?” Quentin presses, and he hates how much he wants to hear Peter deny his earlier allegations. Hates even more how he reaches out and grabs Peter’s wrist when he tries to escape the bed. He hates how he just wants the kid there to ground him.

“I don’t know.”

Lies.

“I hid myself for a reason. Because this is what happens when you don’t comply,” Quentin growls out, gesturing around the empty room. His cell.

Peter jerks his arm back. “No, _this_ is what happens when you try to level London,” he says, then takes a breath. “And how exactly were you hiding? You put on a cape and flew around and—and shot lasers from your hands? How is _that_ blending in, Beck?”

“Hide in plain sight,” Quentin says like it’s obvious. “They couldn’t use me if I was already using them. A truth in a lie, in another lie.”

Peter laughs, the sound completely devoid of humor, and rubs his hand down his face. “Do you even hear yourself, man?”

Oh. His blood starts to boil. This little brat. _Does he hear himself?_ Yeah, he hears himself— because he’s the only one with any goddamn sense left.

This time he doesn’t try to stop Peter when he gets up. At least, not physically.

“What, Peter?” Quentin asks, and he hopes the bitterness shows through. “Do you think _you’re_ free?”

Peter’s halfway to the door, calling over his shoulder, “I’m leaving, aren’t I?”

 _Brat_. Confirmed.

“Go ahead. Leave— and _try_ to tell them no. Just once. They’re just using you, kiddo. You’ll see.”

Does Peter not remember Prague? Does he not remember the time, not so long ago, when he just wanted to hang out with his friends? Do normal, teenage things? He had wanted just _one_ summer away from the superhero business and they didn’t even allow that.

The door slams heavy and Quentin winces; left alone on his bed that feels too empty with a growing pit in his gut.

“You’ll see,” he repeats to no one in particular.

**(xiv.)**

Peter finally shows back up after what feels like the longest week of Quentin’s life. The worst part is, there aren’t any windows in this cube of a room and he’s aware enough to know that he’s not a man that needs to be left alone with his thoughts. And he starts to think that maybe Peter isn’t going to come back—right before he does.

Quentin tries not to stand too abruptly when the door opens to someone other than a guard dressed in military-grade SWAT garb. He just scoots to the edge of the mattress and waits, so he doesn’t spook him or activate that fiery _fight_ response.

He’s just so fucking glad to see him.

Too glad.

And maybe he shouldn’t be, because Peter looks pissed still. His face is red, splotchy from crying, or screaming, or both. It takes Quentin back, months ago, when Peter first showed up. Then, it takes him back farther than that, to a bridge in London with Peter’s hand on his wrist, squeezing tight, and a wound on his side, freshly bleeding out.

Quentin waits, waits for Peter to come to him.

He doesn’t know what’s coming—a punch, a slap? All well-deserved, maybe even a little light for what he’s put the poor kid through. He’ll take it. He’ll let Peter dish out what he needs.

But when Peter finally makes it over with a wobbly gait, he doesn’t do any of those things. He drops to his knees, right between Quentin’s, and reaches up with both hands to touch the collar around Quentin’s neck. He runs his fingers along the edge, skirting against the sore and tender skin until they’re both shaking.

“Peter—”

“Don’t talk,” Peter whispers and even that sounds fragile and close to breaking. He slips his hands from the collar to trail feather-light down Quentin’s neck, earning another involuntary shiver. Then, up to thread through the hair at the base of his neck— too long for his liking, just like his beard.

It feels good, scarily so.

What the hell are they doing?

Peter uses his newfound leverage to pull himself up, getting eye-level and curling his fingers tight, tugging at the strands of hair in his grasp. Quentin knows he should be embarrassed by the gasp that escapes, but it’s hard to focus on anything other than the bewildered look in the glassy, honey eyes that stare straight through him.

What the hell is he doing? He knows what he wants to do.

Quentin kisses him.

All the plans he could’ve ever attempted to conceive crumbles around him. He dives in for another, and another, each with more force and vigor, and Peter opens so sweetly for just a moment, inviting him in and gasping softly when Quentin accepts.

It lasts all of a blissful thirty seconds before Peter shoves him back.

Quentin falls on the mattress, catching himself on his elbows, legs still spread to accommodate Peter’s lithe little body— and he’s too caught up in the way Peter’s glowing with something other than anger or hurt to even be worried about what any of this means.

And he isn’t sure _what’s_ going to happen next. Will Peter run again, this time not coming back? Did he finally, finally cross a line they can’t come back from? Like everything else— this will be worth it.

Peter moves after a moment’s hesitation, climbing on the bed to straddle Quentin’s lap. He places both hands against Quentin’s chest to steady himself before settling his weight against the stiffness in Quentin’s pants that he was trying to politely ignore.

“I’m in charge,” Peter mumbles.

Fine, Quentin thinks. He loves a good illusion.

**(xv.)**

Peter’s hands stay on Quentin’s neck, wrapped around the collar. His fingers glide over the metal and Quentin wishes, desperately, that he could feel that touch on his skin. But Peter just uses his hold to keep himself upright and moving, their clothes stripped from their bodies, and utilizes all of his superhuman dexterity to ride Quentin for all he’s worth.

And he’s not worth much, he knows that— but Peter takes him like a champ anyway.

Peter’s already gotten off once, pretty early on into this endeavor. Quentin had barely needed to touch him, and honestly, he hadn’t been aiming for it. He just knew that he was so much bigger than the two fingers they’d too hastily worked their way up to— and he’d wanted to offer Peter a little respite after he’d slowly sank down, taking every inch of him _so_ good.

 _“Don’t stop,”_ Peter had said between clenched teeth, working himself on Quentin’s lap. _“Don’t you dare stop.”_

And Quentin hadn’t, didn’t want to, and compared to Peter, he wasn’t doing anything at all.

Even now, it’s Peter who bounces up and down, rocking back and forth on his cock. Quentin barely has to do anything but hold tight to his slender hips and guide him, breathing heavy through his nose, groaning when Peter slams particularly hard.

Peter makes a noise that sounds almost pained, and when Quentin looks up, he catches sight of Peter’s sweaty forehead, the curls that stick to the sheen, how his teeth are bared, and his eyes are squinted nearly shut. Overworking himself, like always. He tries to slow his steadfast rhythm, stroking up his back with one hand, steadying the other on his trembling thigh.

“Shhh, c’mon, Pete. You don’t have to keep this up,” he coos. “Let me take care of you.”

“Mmm,” Peter manages, but it doesn’t sound pleased. Closer to annoyed. “I’m in charge, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Quentin tells him. He moves his hands to cup Peter’s ass, giving him a little squeeze that has him shaking. Quentin lifts him, holds him apart, and Jesus Christ, he’s so tight. Perfect. He rolls his hips up, grinding right into Peter’s body. “Why don’t you tell me what to do then, boss?”

“Ahh, fuck, _that_ —” The rest of Peter’s request gets muffled and buried in the side of Quentin’s neck. Quentin thrusts up again, slowly pulling out, holding Peter’s surprisingly heavy body up to get the right angle before pushing in again.

This time, they both groan.

“I got ya,” Quentin whispers. “I got ya.”

Peter nearly sobs, hiding it with an open-mouthed kiss against Quentin’s throat, right above the collar. Quentin works him through it, fucking up into him even as his hands begin to slip on Peter’s skin. They’re both covered in a thin layer of sweat. Both groaning and cursing under their breath, moaning each other’s name as it all comes rapidly to a head. Quentin feels that Peter’s hard again, the silky-smooth head sliding and rubbing between their stomachs with each desperate movement.

And Peter’s panting in his ear, leaving bruises with his fingertips along Quentin’s biceps, warning him that he’s close. He’s gonna come. He’s gonna—

Quentin pulls Peter down as close as he can get and fills him up. It’s still not close enough.

Fuck, it might never be.


	4. Chapter 4

**(xvi.)**

Quentin tells him everything while they lay cramped together on the twin-size bed, sheets and bodies both soaked through. He gives Peter names and locations, intel on future operations and the likelihood of Riva actually following through on them.

It’s probably the weirdest fucking pillow talk of his life.

Peter doesn’t seem to mind though, from what Quentin can gather from their angle— Peter’s head laid perfectly on his steady rising chest. Peter remains stone-faced through most of it, eyes narrowed while he focuses on the way his fingers shift Quentin’s chest hair up and down with little pushes. He doesn’t say much outside of a few hums of understanding.

And after too many lingering moments of silence, Quentin starts to feel a little insecure. Nervous that maybe he’s crossed a line.

Scratch that, he _knows_ he’s crossed a line. He just hopes it wasn’t too far— he’s hurt Peter enough. 

“Hey,” Quentin says, frowning, trying to look down to read Peter’s expression. “You wanted to do that, right?”

He’s not sure how else he was supposed to interpret Peter climbing on his lap and pawing at their clothes with an inhuman strength until they were completely naked, guiding Quentin’s hand between his legs after sucking on his fingers, telling Quentin not to worry, he can take it— _I’m not going to break, Beck._

But you never really know.

Peter looks up at him with a dopey smile that melts corners of Quentin’s heart he didn’t know were frozen.

“Yeah,” Peter says, “I think, in some weird way, that maybe I’ve always wanted that.”

**(xvii.)**

And Quentin thinks, in some weird way, that maybe Peter has always been in charge.

**(xviii.)**

Fury shows up the very next day because of course, he does.

Shit. Yeah, he knew it was going to happen like this. Quentin had resided himself to it the moment Peter Parker crawled on top of him. Doesn’t mean that it doesn’t still sting, that there wasn’t a part of him hoping that maybe Peter wouldn’t take that chance for sweet revenge, even when there was a neon sign pointing straight toward it.

“Fury,” Quentin greets. “Long time.”

“I’m tired of playing your games, Beck,” Fury warns. God, _Beck_ just really doesn’t sound as good coming from Fury’s lips. He jabs a finger in Quentin’s general direction. “It’s been months and Parker hasn’t given us shit.”

Oh.

Quentin’s stomach flutters, but he stomps it down, trains his face so that he doesn't betray the growing itch beneath his skin. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe I have nothing to give?”

He snaps his mouth shut, surprised by the unintentional truth of it. The fear that he’s always harboring alongside a million other insecurities, hidden deep within himself. That he doesn’t have anything worthy to give. That’s he’s nothing without his powers, his secrets, his carefully crafted infrastructure of egotism and arrogance.

“Men like you always have something to give.” Fury doesn’t mean it as a compliment, and he doesn’t take it as such.

He spreads his hands, showing Fury that he has _nothing_ , physically or figuratively. He doesn’t. Not for him anyway. Everything was given to Peter the night before, and Quentin secretly thrills at the fact Fury now scans his open palms for a trick of some sort, with no inkling whatsoever of where they’ve been.

“Nothing,” Quentin reiterates, giving his best shit-eating grin.

Fury doesn’t flinch. “I don’t trust you for a second.”

“Good, maybe you aren’t as stupid as your stunt-double made you out to be.” He’s playing with fire and he knows it. Fury isn’t the kind of dog that has a bark worse than his bite. That’s not gonna stop him though.

“I’m shutting this shit down.” Fury turns and heads for the door. “Now.”

Quentin shrugs his shoulders, lazy and aloof. “Go ahead.”

Let him do his worst.

Because as far as he’s concerned? He’s already won.

**(xix.)**

Quentin jolts awake to the sound of sirens. His entire room pulses with a red light, flashing from outside the tiny window at his cell door and the commotion outside sounds a lot like guards barking orders and heavy boots scuffling down the halls.

He pulls himself up from bed, remaining calm but curious. Maybe Fury wasn’t bluffing when he said he was shutting all of this down. Hell, maybe he actually meant the whole damn operative. Or, maybe—

Quentin tenses.

Peter could be in trouble. He might not have that weird sixth sense, or whatever the kid calls it, but, at once, he’s filled with overwhelming dread. He knows Peter can handle himself. Hell, he can handle _him_ —essentially, nearly, killed him once. But SHIELD is tricky and there’s no doubt Peter still considers them his allies. With that, they have the upper hand.

Every thought in his head becomes a chant of _Peter. Peter. Peter._

Protect.

Quentin knows that he can’t do shit with this goddamn electric dog collar on but between visits with Peter, he’s spent a lot of time bulking back up. He figures he’s got a few good swings left in him if he plays his cards right. Just gotta assess the situation. There’s a whole lot of something going on outside that door and he needs to be careful about this. He needs to be _smart._

He barely gets his ear to the door before he hears the first thud and strangled cry— then all goes silent, save the blaring alarms. Quentin takes a step back right as the door flies off the hinges. Okay, a little dramatic, he’ll admit, but it’s hard to be pressed when he sees Peter flip through the door, all suited up, and all the tension leaves his body.

Then he realizes— Peter is the one that’s _caused_ this riot.

Shit.

“Peter, hey, kid—” Instinctively, Quentin reaches for him, gets his arm and draws him closer. He can’t tell if it’s _his_ heart beating ninety-to-nothing, or it’s Peter’s adrenaline that he feels pumping where he’s holding tight to his wrist. “Are you okay?”

Peter pulls off the mask and takes a deep breath. He looks a little wild and untamed, with his errant curls, wide eyes and a flushed face.

Quentin could kiss him.

“Yeah,” Peter huffs out, “but uh— we should go. Like now.”

Right. Of course, that’s what this is. A jailbreak.

And it’s not like Quentin hasn’t sat in this exact room, alone, meditating, trying to devise ways to spring free for months. So, why does he let go of Peter and take a step back, shaking his head? There’s a primal part of his nature screaming at him, telling him to survive, to escape, but that portion of his brain that now _stupidly_ wants to put Peter first? It’s louder.

“C’mon, Beck,” Peter urges. “We gotta _go_.”

“Do you realize what you’re doing?”

Peter stops and blinks. “Yeah, I’m getting you out of here.” His face twists up in confusion. “Wait. Do you not want to leave?”

“Okay,” Quentin sighs. “Let me rephrase this. Do you know what this _means_?”

Peter reaches out to grab his hand and tugs, trying to pull him toward the door. “Yeah, I—I know.”

Does he? Quentin isn’t convinced. He turns their hands, lacing their fingers together, and steps right into Peter’s space. With his free hand, he lays a calming, gentle hand to his cheek. Or, he means for it to be calming, and it would be if he could stop shaking long enough.

“If I leave here with you, we will both be wanted men.”

Peter frowns. “Maybe you’ve forgotten, but I’ve been in hiding ever since you outed me.”

Ouch. Well-deserved, but ouch.

“This will be different,” Quentin tells him. He rubs Peter’s cheek with his thumb, smoothing out the pinch of his brows. “Hiding from Fury and SHIELD will be harder than hiding from all of New York.”

Peter seems to consider this—or maybe he already has. He’s a smart kid, and Quentin needs to start giving him more credit.

“You said you still have drones hidden away, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says carefully. What?

“And— you still technically have access to EDITH, right? I mean, I never relinquished your authority to use her. I thought you were dead and then when you weren’t— well, you were in SHIELD custody.”

“Where are you going with this?” Quentin asks. Fuck. He’s half terrified, half impressed, and if he’s being honest, sort of turned on. Clever, clever boy. “Do you still have EDITH?”

“No—” Peter rolls his eyes when Quentin’s face drops. “But I know _you_ do.”

Quentin freezes. That…that had been the one thing he’d refrained from confessing. His last secret. That EDITH’s entire mainframe and network had been duplicated and copied to his back-up, sealed away even from Riva and the crew.

“C’mon, man,” Peter says, “I know you didn’t give up all that power so easily. Tell me you didn’t.”

“I—” Quentin groans. Fuck. How the hell does Peter know him this well? That’s criminal in itself. “Yeah, I have a back-up. Jesus Christ, kid—”

“Good. We can erase our trail then,” Peter says, and he says it so easily. Like what he’s planning isn’t treason. Like what he’s doing isn’t conspiring with the enemy.

Like he’s not freeing Quentin from SHIELD custody.

Peter tugs on his arm again, nodding toward the door. “We gotta go. Do you trust me?”

_Do you trust me?_

Trust.

He hasn’t allowed himself to do that in a very long time.

“Yeah,” Quentin breathes out. “Yeah, I trust you.”

**(xx.)**

Quentin stumbles the moment his feet touch the ground, bracing himself of an old radiator and catching his breath. How the hell did Peter do that routinely? The city just isn’t meant to be seen from that angle, swinging from building to building in a blur of neon.

“You good?” Peter asks, calm as ever, just a hint of teasing. “Can’t handle it?”

“Not my preferred method of transportation.” Quentin stands up, still a little wobbly on his feet and looks around. “Where are we.”

“Uhm— an abandoned warehouse? A little outside of Queens.”

“That’s a little close to home, isn’t it?” He looks around, takes it in. Abandoned is right—busted windows and cobwebs, layers of dust so thick you could slice it with a knife. Peter stands in the middle of it all, sheepishly bouncing from foot to foot. “We can’t stay here, you know.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

Quentin still can’t help but feel like he doesn’t. He’s gotta give it all up, and for what? A washed-up supervillain who can’t even access the only thing that makes him special. Which reminds him—

He tugs at the collar. “You gonna’ take this off or what?”

“Nah,” Peter says, walking over to an old trunk and bending down to tinker with a lock. “I figure I can recalibrate it though, disarm the mechanism that cuts off your abilities. But the shock feature? That might come in handy.”

“What?” Quentin blinks. “You’re not serious.”

“You’ve doubled-crossed me how many times now? I need some collateral!”

Which, okay. Fair. He can’t argue that logic. Plus, collared or not— he still _owes_ Peter. They’re two fugitives on the run now, all they have is each other, whether they like it or not. Even if Peter comes to regret his decision in the future.

“You know your little friendly neighborhood Spider-Man routine has to end, right?” Quentin asks, needling him in some respect. He just wants to know, needs to know, that Peter understands the trouble he’s in.

“I don’t see why.”

“You can’t just—”

“I’ll just be the friendly neighborhood vigilante,” he says, unfazed. The lock pops and Peter makes a triumphant noise. “Plus, Mr. Rogers went against the government _and_ Mr. Stark, and he ended up defending Earth just fine.”

“Yeah, well,” Quentin says in place of an argument. He doesn’t have one. “What’s in the box?”

Peter doesn’t answer but reaches in and pulls out something shiny and gold and tosses it over.

One of his gauntlets.

“What—” Quentin looks up, blinking rapidly, to find Peter pulling out a heavy, woolen cape. Part of him is absolutely horrified that it was wadded in a dusty old trunk, but mostly he’s just impressed that Peter managed to obtain it. “Where did you get all this?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter shoots him a look and smiles in a manner that reveals just how proud of himself he is. “Time to suit up, Mysterio.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell with me over on twitter! @shineonloki1  
> And, as always, feedback is loved and appreciated!  
> Thanks for reading!


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